


The Triumphant Return of Jaskier, the Continent’s Bravest and Most Brilliant Bard (It's a working title!)

by nanazlovese



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Being Lost, Crying Jaskier | Dandelion, Dehydration, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Food Poisoning, Gen, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier Was Never A Boy Scout, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Sad Jaskier | Dandelion, Starvation, The Dangers of Unprepared Hiking, Whump, landslides
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:28:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24810040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nanazlovese/pseuds/nanazlovese
Summary: alternative title: Jaskier's terrible awful no good very bad hiking tripAfter the breakup, Jaskier starts out down the mountain heartbroken and craving a warm bed, ale in which to drown his sorrows and some good company. However, the path they took up the mountain is now impassable, and he soon finds himself hopelessly and utterly lost.I looked up the dangers of getting lost in the wilderness and this fic is just me making all of them happen to Jaskier. This is a survival guide, in reverse. If you're ever lost in the wilderness, do NONE of these things.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 22
Kudos: 355





	The Triumphant Return of Jaskier, the Continent’s Bravest and Most Brilliant Bard (It's a working title!)

‘I’ll – I’ll go get the rest of the story from the others. See you round, Geralt.’ As he turns away, Jaskier’s actually quite proud of his composure, how his voice didn’t crack and how he’s not already resorted to begging Geralt to take him back. Not that he’s above begging _per se_ , but he highly doubts it would make any difference. Geralt’s snarled words are still ringing in his ears and his heart’s beating fast, breath starting to hitch with the effort of holding back shocked tears. And he _is_ shocked. He knows he and the witcher hadn’t started out on the best foot, but he’s convinced himself that Geralt has come to tolerate his company, if not – at times, and begrudgingly – enjoy it. Has he really spent the past 20 years resenting Jaskier’s very presence? As he crests the path away from Geralt, staring stubbornly at his boots and willing his tears away, he finds himself cursing his own foolishness. Geralt had never even accepted that they were friends, and this wasn’t the first time he’d showed his true feelings in an outburst of anger. Jaskier remembers all too clearly the sensation of his throat constricting under a djinn’s magic, choking on his own blood, vision blurring with pain and panic. He should have taken the hint years ago. Now he feels humiliated, and stupid, and old. He bends to pick up his lute and the tears well over. The instrument reminds him of their very first adventure, nearly twenty years ago. He was so hopeful, so eager to find goodness in the world and so convinced he’d found a friend in Geralt. If he’s honest with himself, for a long time he had hoped to find something more than a friend, foolish romantic that he is. At this point it has long been clear that that was never going to happen, the witcher having fallen for the beautiful, powerful, dangerous, sexy mage, who is everything Jaskier isn’t, and could never be. _‘I’m weak, my love, and I am wanting’_ Jaskier’s own lines run through his head, written the day before but truer now than they have ever been. His vision blurs with fresh tears. Against all sense, he still loves Geralt, with all of his weak, wanting, human heart, and the thought only makes him cry harder, the tears marching silently down his cheeks as he walks.

At first, he only knows he has to get away from Geralt, to avoid humiliating himself further, but he quickly decides he also needs to get off this godforsaken mountain and to a town. Specifically, a town with an inn. Specifically, an inn with a warm bed, plenty of ale and perhaps, if he’s lucky, some good company. First, then, he’ll need some provisions for his trip down the mountain. No matter what Geralt thinks, he’s not a _complete_ idiot and he can survive on his own. He reaches this morning’s camp, a fresh wave of sorrow hitting him when he catches sight of the promontory where he and Geralt sat last night. It feels so much longer than a day ago. He had been stupidly hopeful, suggesting they leave together, only for the witcher to spend the night in Yennefer’s tent and Jaskier to wake up cold and utterly alone. Not for the first time, he notes, bitterly. No. Enough self-pity, he thinks, sounding like his mother. Pull yourself together, Jask. You’re here for provisions, not to mope. Sniffling pathetically, he finds his bag, noticing with no small relief that nobody has raided his supplies. He hitches the bag over one shoulder, his lute over the other, turns away from the camp, away from Geralt, and starts down the hill.

He’s so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he’s been walking for several hours when he realises the mistake he’s already made. He’s following the path they came up, and so he’s going to come to the dwarves’ – now impassable – shortcut.

‘Shit.’ He curses aloud, and it feels good so he adds a ‘fucking shit’ for good measure. He can’t turn back, because if he runs into Geralt he doesn’t think he could keep himself from having a very pathetic and humiliating breakdown, and he wants to preserve what little dignity he walked away with. Besides, he reasons that Geralt probably needs some time well away from Jaskier. He tries to ignore the niggling voice telling him that’s what Geralt’s always needed, and almost manages. No, he’ll have to keep heading down this way. Now he thinks about it, he’s sure he remembers the path forking this side of the shortcut. He keeps walking quietly, not in the mood to fill the silence with anything but the steady scuffing of his boots on the gravel track.

To his relief, he was right. The path does indeed fork before he reaches the treacherous shortcut, and he leaves the path he came up on, following the smaller track as it weaves through the scrubby foliage. Several times he nearly slips, cursing the path and his boots and dragon hunting and Geralt and his own stupid self for agreeing to climb this stupid mountain in the first place. The path winds down and gets steeper, and narrower, and the brush around him gets spikier, catching and tearing his doublet sleeves as he shoulders his way through. Eventually, a particularly spiky branch catches his cheek and when he puts his hand to his face his fingertips come away red. His chin is quivering; he can feel the rage rising in him and fresh tears brimming in his eyes. He takes hold of the branch and snaps it off, throwing it to the dusty floor and stamping on it, grinding its budding leaves into the dust with the heel of his boot.

‘Fuck!’ he grits out between clenched teeth, then ‘FUCK!’ he shouts into the wind. Then he sits down on the path, draws his knees up to his chest, drops his head onto them, and sobs. It takes an embarrassingly long time for his tears to dry (not that anyone’s waiting, not that anyone _cares_ ) and when he lifts his head the sun is low on the horizon. The valley below is filled with the same warm red light as the previous evening, when he had tried so hard to reach out to his friend, and failed. He sniffs loudly and stands, brushing the dust off his breeches. He needs to find shelter, because he knows from last night how cold it gets, and at this rate there’s no way he’s going to make it down today. He peers down the path, which is swiftly disappearing into the twilight as the sun sets behind the mountain across the valley. He’s starting to suspect this is a track made by animals – deer or goats, he hopes, and nothing more dangerous – and never intended for human travellers, which also means it might well not lead down. Looking to his right, he sees nothing beyond the curve of the hill as it dips away from him, but to his left he can see a cliff which, he reasons, might provide him with some shelter. He pulls his lute off his back and holds her in front of him, protecting the wood from scratches with his arms.

‘Sorry about this, love. You shouldn’t have to bear the brunt of my poor orienteering. In my defence, neither of us were designed for this kind of – ow!’ he curses as another particularly sharp thorn catches his hand ‘for this kind of bloody stupid activity.’ He finishes, half-heartedly. He wishes he had Geralt’s thick leather armour. Or thick witcher skin. Or both. As he reaches the base of the cliff, hot and dusty and out of breath, he realises his second mistake. He’s forgotten to pick up his waterskin. His throat instantly feels parched, and he swallows thickly, his stomach dropping with fear. He listens carefully, but as much as he strains, he can’t hear any sound of water. Once again, he curses himself for being so stupid. He’ll have to sleep here tonight and go in search of water first thing tomorrow.

Tomorrow will be better; he’ll find water, then get back to the main path (because, he reasons, Geralt will already have made his way down by now). He tries not to think of the witcher, reunited with Roach, making his way easily down the path, glad to have rid himself of the irritating bard at last. Lowering his lute until he’s holding her by the neck, Jaskier makes his way to the base of the cliff. The ground is strewn with boulders whose irregular shapes offer shelter from the wind and protection if it rains. Suddenly feeling very tired, he chooses a sizeable one with an overhanging ledge which if he squints and imagines really hard almost looks like the roof of a stable or lean-to. So much for the warm bed he was dreaming of when he left the camp earlier. Briefly, he considers trying to make a fire, but the very idea of leaving his newfound shelter to collect wood, and then the struggle of lighting it, and getting it to stay lit, makes him feel drained. He lays out his bedroll then sits down and takes a piece of jerky from his bag instead, settling for cold food tonight. Once he’s finished chewing (which takes much longer than it should because jerky definitely isn’t real food and is probably better used as armour than eaten), he starts to remove his doublet to use it as a pillow. Feeling the cold air against his arms, though, he thinks better of it and shrugs it back on. Then he lies down, curls up around his lute, whispers a goodnight to her, and tries to fall asleep.

He must have succeeded because he’s awoken by a deep rumbling noise. It’s still dark and his first thought is that an animal is growling at him. In his panic, he barely catches himself before he calls out the first syllable ‘Ger-’, then remembers the previous day. His next realisation is worse, though, as the rumbling gets louder, resolving into deafening cracks and crashes, and he feels the ground _shaking_ , and he just has time to scramble to his feet and run from the cliff face before a huge boulder comes crashing down on top of his shelter, snapping the ledge and crushing his belongings in a cloud of dust. By the light of the moon he can dimly see that more rocks are still falling, along with soil and plants, and the dust is rising around him, making him cough and his eyes stream, and so he turns away and runs blindly into the scrub. Suddenly he loses his footing with a yelp and his arms fly out, grasping desperately for the nearest branch. His right hand finds purchase and then he’s swinging round towards it, both legs suddenly, horrifically, dangling. His feet scrabble frantically and find the roots of the shrub he’s managed to hang on to. He opens his eyes and hazards a look over his shoulder, seeing that the ground drops away into an inky abyss.

‘Oh fuck. Oh FUCK.’ He turns back to his hands, heart racing. He swallows, breathing another ‘fuck’ on every breath. He looks down at his feet and starts, oh so carefully, to shift them off the hanging roots and back onto solid ground. When he finally makes it his arms are shaking with the effort of bearing his weight, and he can feel a warm wetness on his palms where he’s gripped too tightly and broken the skin. He backs away from the cliff edge and, for the third time that day, sits down heavily in the dust. Except this time it’s different. He has no water, no food, and no lute. He is utterly alone now, even his beloved instrument and the memento of his first adventure with Geralt crushed to pieces on this cursed mountain. He looks out at the moon over the valley and starts to cry again.

At some point he must have fallen asleep where he sat, because when Jaskier awakes on his side the valley is still in semi-darkness but the sky is bright overhead. He opens his eyes blearily, groaning as a horrible headache makes itself known.

‘Ugh, good morning dehydration.’ He sits up and looks around him. The cliff where he – so stupidly – set up camp last night still looms behind him, but it’s further away than he expected. He must have run further than he thought in his panic. Not much chance of finding the path back up then, but right now – first – he has to find water. He stands, legs stiff, makes a show of brushing off his doublet and breeches, then looks both ways along the cliff. It curves down towards the left, so he turns and starts out along the downward slope.

The sun rises over the valley and all too quickly it’s beating down on his back, and he’s sweating and has to take off his doublet. By the time the sun is overhead, his vision is starting to blur and he’s feeling sick, despite knowing he has next to nothing in his stomach. He passes into the blissful shade of a clump of trees, but his heart drops when he emerges the other side and sees that the cliff to his left curves around to meet the sheer drop on his right, without so much as a creek in sight. At this point, Jaskier’s barely surprised.

‘Oh,’ he mumbles, then turns slowly on the dusty ground and begins to stumble back the way he came. By the time the sun starts to drop towards the mountains again, he’s dizzy and disorientated, his head pounding. At some point he’s dropped his doublet, but he doesn’t know where. Someone is humming tunelessly. He trips on a stray root and ends up on the floor, the world tilting dangerously. He’s distantly worried he might roll off the cliff. He hears someone call out, but nobody replies. Somehow, he’s up again, stumbling on. And then he hears it, and his whole world focuses in on that one sound – the sweetest he’s ever heard, sweeter than any music he’s ever written – _water_. His pace quickens, more falling than running towards the sound. He drops, gratefully, face-first into the stream, soaking his shirt and drinking greedily. Remembering that he has to breathe, he surfaces with a gasp, then cups his hands and continues to gulp down handful after handful of freezing water. When he’s drunk his fill, he shuffles back to rest his back against a tree and closes his eyes, revelling in the relief.

‘You, stream, are my _favourite_ stream. In fact, you are the absolute highlight of this entire fucking mountain. Excuse my language.’ However, it’s not long before Jaskier starts to feel the loss of his doublet. Especially seeing as he is now soaked through with freezing stream water. ‘Ah,’ he remarks to himself as he looks at the sun, close to the horizon once more, shadow falling across the valley. ‘Fuck.’ He finishes, and shivers. He idly notes that his language is getting worse. Living in the wild like this, Jaskier can see why Geralt’s vocabulary is the way it is. He shivers again. He goes to stand, reaching to pull himself up on a branch, but something in his right shoulder _throbs_. When he looks down, he sees the shirt is ripped (bad) and so is his skin (worse), and blood is flowing freely down his arm from the deep gash on his shoulder (really very bad).

‘Oh, cock.’ He sighs, because now he’s looked at it the pain is very painful indeed and he can’t manage anything more creative. He drops his head back against the tree and squeezes his eyes shut, breathing through the throbbing pain and trying to work out what had cut him so badly. When he relaxes his jaw a sob makes its way out between his teeth. He’s beginning to see that maybe Geralt was right in thinking him a burden. He’s been on this mountain for two days, and in that time he’s managed to lose all his belongings, get hopelessly lost himself, almost die of dehydration, and now he’s going to bleed out from a wound he hadn’t even noticed in his haste for water. Maybe he really is the useless, stupid bard that everyone assumes him to be. And now he’s going to die on this mountain, alone and afraid and fucking cold. He shivers again. He’s going to have to make a fire, soaked as he is. But first, he needs to bandage this shoulder. He grips the hem of his shirt with shaking hands and pulls, trying to rip the fabric, but it doesn’t tear. He tries again, and his right hand loses grip and slips off.

‘Damn you and your fine tailoring, Pierre.’ He says through chattering teeth. He needs to stop this shivering before trying to bandage anything.

‘Fire, then. Fire first. Come on Jask, pretend you’re Geralt. Hmm a bit. Get into character.’ He thinks of the igni that Geralt uses to start fires, like it’s nothing, and again finds himself wishing he wasn’t so damn _human_.

‘Right. Well, you can still gather sticks like Geralt.’ And he gets himself up, resolving to get his fire started before he loses the light. Now he’s no longer thirsty, he also realises how ravenously hungry he is, having eaten only a strip of jerky since he parted with Geralt.

‘Food, too, then. You’re a growing boy after all,’ he jokes to himself, thinking again how much he sounds like his mother. By the time the sun sinks behind the mountains, Jaskier has a small pile of dry lichen and twigs to use as kindling, plus some bigger sticks for once the fire is going, along with a small pile of berries, mushrooms and several beetles which he really isn’t looking forward to eating. The activity has also warmed him, and he feels hopeful as he carefully arranges his sticks the way he’s watched Geralt do so many times before. He’s heard that some rocks can make sparks, so he fetches a couple from the dry edge of the river bed and sits down in front of what is soon to be a roaring fire, and strikes the rocks together. Nothing. Again. Nothing. He keeps trying until the sun is well below the horizon, the air cooling quickly. The shocks from banging the rocks together have made his shoulder bleed more, and still his hands are too weak and cold to bandage it. Useless, he thinks as he smashes the rocks together and wills them to spark. Stupid. _Smash!_ Incapable. _Smash!_ A burden. _Smash!_ Alone. _Smash!_

‘FUCK!’ In his anger, he’s missed the stone and struck his own thumb. He can feel the heat of blood welling up around the nail. ‘Fuck. Ow. Fuuuuuck.’ He curses, putting his thumb into his mouth and sucking to try and ease the throbbing.

‘Fuck you, fire. I don’t need you anyway.’ He glares at the pile of sticks, his bold statement somewhat undermined by his violent shivering. Instead, he turns to his food pile. He had wanted to have a nice meal once the fire was going, but it seems the mountain had other plans. He plucks a few berries from the pile and eats them, trying to pretend that they’re the roasted meat Geralt prepares. Now he’s started eating he’s ravenous, and once the berries are finished he moves onto the mushrooms, tearing into their fleshy caps with his teeth like an animal. Then he looks at the insects. He’s still so hungry, but he’s not sure he can bring himself to do it. He picks one up and tentatively brings it towards his mouth, closing his eyes and trying not to breathe through his nose lest he taste beetle. He tries his hardest to pretend it’s some Cintran delicacy, some exotic part of the feasts prepared for royal namedays and holidays. But then he can feel the tiny legs on his tongue and it’s so inescapably _insect_ shaped that he almost gags.

‘Right. Yeah, no. I think no. Thank you.’ He puts it back onto the pile, now feeling slightly guilty for having killed the shiny little beetles if he wasn’t even going to eat them. With a last, mournful look at the fire (or lack thereof), he lies down on his side and prepares to sleep. He’s shivering so violently now that his teeth are rattling together, and he really hopes he’ll wake up in the morning.

To his surprise, he wakes in the night. And even more surprising: he’s burning, so hot that at first he thinks there must be a forest fire. Then there’s a sharp pain in his gut and he squeals, sure he’s been stabbed. He just has time to roll onto his side before he’s violently sick, twice. He tries to catch his breath but he’s still gagging and he can’t get any air in. He rolls and makes it to all fours before he’s sick again, all over his hands. Then the knife is back in his gut and he screams and he’s back on his side again, curled up tightly, all animal instinct trying to protect itself. There’s a ringing in his ears and he’s so dizzy and so _hot_. He gags again but nothing comes up, and he can hear himself whimpering, desperately trying to catch his breath. Then he sees it, through the trees. A flash of silver. Geralt! Geralt will know what to do. He’ll help Jaskier like he always does when he’s most in need.

‘Ger-’ he gags again, his voice is too weak! He won’t hear it!

‘Geralt!’ He manages, and it leaves him breathless. ‘Geralt, please! Fuck, Geralt. H-’ he’s cut off by another cramp and he keens. ‘Help me, please.’ His voice is running out, but Geralt has heard. He’s turned. His beautiful golden eyes fix on Jaskier and he feels bathed in sunlight. Then, to his horror, they turn angry, and Jaskier starts to babble.

‘Please, please Geralt, please I -I’m so sorry, I’m- ah! Geralt, please, it _hurts_ ’ Geralt is coming towards him and Jaskier doesn’t even know what he’s begging for any more, but now Geralt is standing over him.

‘I told you to leave,’ he growls.

‘I know, and I- ah- I _did_ try, but you see, I got-’ another cramp wracks his body, and he jerks instinctively, closing his eyes and cringing. When he opens them he’s looking at Geralt’s boot.

‘Hmm.’ Geralt rumbles, more a scoff than an affirmation. Then, the boot turns, and he walks away. Jaskier tries to get up, he desperately tries to follow. But he can’t get his legs underneath him, and he only manages to stumble a step before the world tilts up to meet him and the dark of the ground curls up around him, enclosing him in a dusty blackness.

Once again, Jaskier awakes with a groan. Everything hurts. His stomach aches from gagging and his shoulder is throbbing. His hands are crusted with vomit, and every time he inhales he can smell it dried in his nose. He crawls to the edge of the river – his _favourite_ river – he reminds himself, and washes his hands and arms, carefully avoiding getting his shirt wet this time. Then he washes his face and rinses out his mouth, before drinking some water, and then sitting back. He breathes out slowly, trying to take stock of this new set of pains. And then he remembers. Geralt. Geralt had abandoned him. To die. He feels tears well up in his eyes again; now he knows _exactly_ how Geralt feels about him. Not even worth the time it would take Jaskier to explain what had happened. He looks around himself, miserably, feeling the tightness growing in his chest at this new insult, and his eye falls on the stalk of one of his mushrooms. In the bright daylight he can see that rather than bruising the soft pink he had expected, the liquid it is leaking is a deep, inky black. Jaskier feels a wave of sickness all over again at the realisation. He’s lucky not to have died. But that also means-

‘I suppose, Geralt, you’re excused. Given how you weren’t real and all.’ He says, shakily, to the forest. He recognises the mushroom’s he’s eaten; they’re used by sham holy men to show fee-paying believers the future, a trick most educated people know is horseshit. And if he had died, he would have been far from the first. Just another mistake to add to the list, then. He’s stopped counting at this point. He pulls himself up on shaking, weak legs and turns to face down the hill, trying to put the image of Geralt turning away, abandoning him while he writhes in pain in a pool of his own vomit out of his mind. Now he’s found his river, he knows if he follows her down, he’ll end up at the bottom of the valley. He’s trying not to think about the existence of waterfalls. As he leaves his little clearing, he kicks over the remains of his fire.

‘Not that I’m bitter, witcher, but using igni is cheating.’ He walks alongside his river, wishing he had his lute to take his mind off the hunger, and the throbbing and sluggish bleeding of his shoulder, and shakes in his legs, and persistent headache. He starts talking to her, almost like he talks – used to talk, he remembers with a pang of sadness – to his lute, or to Geralt for that matter.

‘In terms of conversation, river, you are by far the best. I mean, for a start, you actually reply.’ She bubbled agreeably beside him. ‘and you haven’t told me to shut up _once_!’ He walks like this for most of the morning, until the sun is high in the sky again, and he’s just wondering whether they’re really going downhill because the valley doesn’t seem to be getting any closer, when he notices the trees thinning on his left.

‘I’ll be right back’ he tells the river, holding a finger up to politely end the conversation, and goes to look. When he comes to the edge of the tree cover, his heart _soars_. He can see the _path_! He _recognises_ this! He’s no longer lost! And it’s little more than a tree’s height below him, down a gravelly slope that looks walk-able. He steps onto the slope, relief easing all his pain. The minute he gets both feet onto the slope he realises his mistake. This isn’t walk-able at all; it’s scree. His feet have no purchase, the smooth rocks sliding over one another like quicksand. He lurches backwards, trying to reach solid ground, but just ends up on his back, winded by the fall. He’s sliding down the slope and gaining speed. He needs to slow himself before he hits the ground at the bottom. He flings out his hands, desperately reaching for anything only to be cut by the sharp stones. He’s moving much too fast, and in a few seconds it’s all over, his right foot hitting the ground with a sickening crunch as his ankle twists and his momentum sends him tumbling forwards onto his front, rocks he displaced clattering down around him. Instinct has him cowering, covering his head, and he can hear himself whimpering, his breath coming harshly as he waits helplessly for the inevitable dislodged boulder to crush his soft, immobile body. But nothing happens, and the clattering of falling rocks slows and stills. He grinds his teeth together and groans, waiting for the pain to subside, his cheek pressed into the ground of the path, and then he opens his eyes.

He sees a familiar clearing. A familiar horse. And a familiar _witcher_.

‘Geralt,’ he’s still winded and his voice is too quiet. It’s like last night all over again.

‘Geralt, over here, please – Geralt.’ He starts to push himself up to stand. He can see Geralt busying himself with something in Roach’s saddlebags, but soon he’ll mount, and he’ll leave. Jaskier stands but on his first step his ankle gives way with a shooting pain, and he’s back on the ground. He grits his teeth, pushes himself up again.

‘Geralt!’ his shoulder is open, he can feel the warm blood flooding his shirt. But Geralt has _heard_. He’s turning, he’s seen Jaskier, which is lucky because with the hunger, and the blood loss, and now his ankle, he really doesn’t think he can make it much further.

‘Jaskier?’ he doesn’t sound anywhere near concerned enough to Jaskier. ‘I thought you left days ago.’ If anything, he sounds brisk, irritated. Jaskier’s heart drops and he starts to make excuses, short of breath in his panic and pain.

‘I was just on my way – and I will be again, straight away, I swear – but I – I’ _I got lost, Geralt, I thought I was going to die, I was so afraid?_ No, it’s too humiliating. He changes tack, knows Geralt likes him to speak more plainly – he should just ask for what he needs and be on his way. ‘– could you spare a little morsel of – of food, for your –’ he stumbles again. For Geralt’s what? What is he to the other man? He tries again, but he lets his voice die with embarrassment, ensuring Geralt – even with all his witchery senses – won’t hear, ‘for your friend?’

Geralt is moving across the clearing now. ‘Jaskier?’ the low rumble is concerned, ‘Jaskier, what happened?’ he gets closer, and Jaskier knows he looks a state, blood, fresh and old, soaking his shirt, breeches dusty and torn, and he probably smells worse; a grimy combination of blood, sweat and vomit. As he expects, Geralt reels when he comes downwind, and his pace quickens into a run. Distantly, Jaskier thinks that’s lucky because – hopefully for the last time on this horrible adventure – the ground is rushing up to meet him, the edges of his vision dimming as he’s embraced by unconsciousness.

_Geralt turned at the shout of his name, seeing the familiar shape of Jaskier outlined against the sunlight. Irritation flared in him at how easily the bard seemed to come and go. The fool had no idea that Geralt had searched the mountain path for two whole days, forgoing food and sleep for his safety, just for him to appear here like nothing’s happened. Jaskier started to talk, then, rambling about something unimportant, and Geralt turned and began to stalk towards him, irritation overflowing into anger just as it had two days before. But as he got closer he noticed that something was off. Jaskier was missing his lute._

_‘Jaskier?’ Geralt asked, suddenly concerned. Then he noticed the blood staining his shirt a dark red, and the lack of doublet, and the way he was standing, swaying slightly and resting one foot like a horse gone lame. ‘Jaskier, what happened?’ And then the smell hit him. Jaskier’s familiar clean scent was almost completely masked by exhaustion and pain, laced with blood, sweat and vomit. Geralt started to run, just as the bard crumpled to the floor before his eyes, not even putting out his hands to break the fall._

_Geralt quickly took stock of Jaskier’s condition, his stomach dropping in shock. He grimaced at the deep wound in his shoulder, numerous cuts and scrapes across his hands and arms and back, as well as a fresh cut at his hairline that was shallow but bleeding a bright, shocking red. His right ankle was swelling angrily, the foot resting in an unnatural position, and he was filthy, his clothes dusty and crusted with dried sweat, blood and vomit. A growl formed low in Geralt’s chest. Had he been attacked? Robbed? Was it the dwarves, on their way back down the mountain? Bandits? A wild animal? With a growl, he shook his head, reminding himself that right now he needed to focus on helping Jaskier – finding out what had happened could wait. He picked the bard up and slung him over his shoulder, moving quickly to fetch some spare rags and a waterskin, as well as a needle and twine from Roach’s saddlebag. Then he carried him to the burnt-out fire pit – the circle of rocks still in place from their camp on the journey up – and laid him out on the ground, cushioning his head as he did so in a gentle way he would never have lived down had Jaskier been awake._

_Geralt made short work of removing the arm from Jaskier’s shirt, strong hands ripping it off at the seam, and inspected the wound underneath. To his surprise, it didn’t look fresh. Why the fuck hadn’t Jaskier bandaged it, then? It was several inches deep and still bleeding, full of dust and grime. The bard really has no sense of self-preservation, Geralt thought, angrily, as he poured water from the skin over the wound, the fool’s lucky it’s not infected. Taking advantage of Jaskier’s unconsciousness, Geralt used his fingers to pick out the worst of the dirt and then rinsed it with fresh water. As Geralt pushed the needle into the edge of the wound, Jaskier half-murmured something that the witcher couldn’t make out, his eyebrows pulling together and his lower lip lifting to meet upper as if in deep concentration. Geralt hummed in reply, and crossed the needle back across the wound, drawing the edges together with practiced motions. Jaskier was quiet for the next four stitches, and when Geralt looked up he was surprised to see that the bard was crying, silent tears sliding down his cheeks, eyes shut tightly and jaw clenched. Now that Geralt was listening, he could hear Jaskier’s heart racing; the bard was no longer unconscious, and so he pulled the last two stitches together more gently. Then he tore the rag into long strips and wrapped one of them tightly around Jaskier’s shoulder, unnerved by the bard’s strained silence but unsure what to say._

_Satisfied that Jaskier wasn’t about to bleed out, and eager for something simpler to do than try and talk to the man, Geralt moved on to inspect his ankle. The swelling was getting worse and Geralt had no way to tell if it was broken. He cursed under his breath as he realised he would have to give up Roach; there was no way Jaskier would be able to walk even to the closest town. He’d have to splint it now and hope for the best. He moved to the treeline, trying to focus on finding branches to make a splint and not on the way that Jaskier’s heartbeat had quickened and his breath hitched as he felt Geralt move away. Geralt returned to Jaskier’s side with two sturdy, straight branches which he snapped to the length of Jaskier’s lower leg, carefully positioning them either side of his ankle before wrapping a length of rag around them and pulling it tight. Geralt felt Jaskier’s body tense at the pressure, heard his breath hitch and saw his slender hands jerk as he instinctively grasped for the witcher, fingers closing around nothing because Geralt was out of reach. But then he went slack, lapsing into unconsciousness again without so much as a whimper._

_Geralt finished and tied off the splint, before moving back up to check the cut he’d noticed at Jaskier’s hairline. He found himself feeling glad Jaskier was unconscious and not in pain, and that he was no longer crying. Although of course – Geralt told himself – he was only glad because it preserved what little dignity the bard had left. No other reason. To Geralt’s relief, the wound had largely clotted on its own, not requiring any urgent attention. He looked at Jaskier’s face, and briefly considered using the remaining bandages to wipe away the tear tracks that had cut through the grime, before pushing the idea out of his mind. There was no need, and the bandages were best saved for the next time one of them needed patching up. Instead, he stood and set about gathering sticks for a fire._

When Jaskier wakes, he’s groggy and disorientated. He groans under his breath, feeling the tightness of the stitches in his shoulder and the splint on his ankle, but he can’t help but notice that he’s _deliciously_ warm, and when he opens his eyes he sees a roaring fire, and, sitting opposite him, a silent witcher. He lies there, watching Geralt, trying to gauge his mood so that opening his mouth doesn’t earn him a reprise of the tirade on the mountain. He needs to be particularly careful now, he reasons, after he’s stumbled across Geralt before he’s had any time to cool off, needing to be saved from his own stupidity _again_.

‘You should have some food.’ Geralt says, motioning to the plate of roasted hare which must have been placed carefully in front of him while he was out, and all Jaskier’s thoughts leave his head with the realisation that he is _ravenous_. He sits up so fast his head spins, and then he gratefully rips into the meat with all the manners of a feral dog that’s been offered a prime steak. There’s a huff of a laugh from the other side of the campfire, then ‘Slow down, Jaskier. You’ll make yourself sick.’ Jaskier does, instead reaching for the waterskin which was beside him. After a few minutes, Jaskier slows, eating and drinking at a more human pace, and the camp grows quiet, the crackling of the fire the only sound breaking the tense atmosphere. Jaskier can’t stand it, his need to fill silence overwhelming.

‘Well. Um. This is nice. If I’m completely honest, Geralt, when I said ‘see you around’, I didn’t expect it to be quite so soon.’ A frown passes across the witcher’s features and Jaskier’s stomach drops. Still angry then. 

‘Neither did I.’ He says. They fall back into silence, Jaskier watching Geralt, Geralt watching the fire. When Jaskier goes to speak again, Geralt starts at the same time. Jaskier was going to apologise, to thank Geralt for the help and assure him that he would be on his way as soon as it gets light (ankle be damned, he would have to work that out come the morning), but when the ever-eloquent witcher starts with ‘fuck,’ Jaskier shuts his rambling mouth with a click.

‘Fuck, Jaskier. I’m sorry.’ That’s not what Jaskier expected. He watches Geralt through the fire, not saying anything for fear of putting the witcher off. ‘I was hurt and angry, and I didn’t mean what I said.’ The quiet stretches out between them, and Jaskier is beginning to appreciate the power of not filling silences, the witcher looking more contrite by the second as he realises how he hurt Jaskier. ‘I was angry at myself, not at you. I’m _fucking_ sorry.’ Jaskier doesn’t want it to be enough, he doesn’t _want_ to forgive Geralt just like that and come running back to him. But he also, pathetically, _desperately_ wants his friend back. He sighs, about to say as much, when Geralt hums, changing the subject, ‘What was it? What attacked you?’ Jaskier opens his mouth, confused. And then he realises. Geralt thinks he was attacked on his way down the mountain. Briefly, he considers lying – embellishing the truth, he corrects in his head – spinning Geralt a wild story of an intrepid bard who faced mortal danger from bandits and monsters and wild animals and still made it out against all odds. But he can’t do it. Gods, this is humiliating. He stares into the fire, letting the mask of entertainer and bard drop, suddenly feeling very small, and very mortal, and very stupid. He sighs.

‘Gods, Geralt. Nothing attacked me. I got lost, that’s all. I got lost, and I was alone, and afraid, and I didn’t think. I never _think_.’ He’s digging his nails into his palm, wishing he had his lute to ease the tension in his fingers, and he’s staring into the fire so hard his eyes are watering. He drops his head, looking at his fidgeting hands. ‘I’m no good at this, Geralt. I’m not made for this life, and I’m-’ he gulps, willing his voice not to break ‘and I’m a useless travel companion. I’m too soft, and too mortal, and too old.’ His voice _does_ break, then, and he curses himself, hiding it in a bitter laugh. ‘I’m sorry, Geralt. I should never have followed you.’ He pauses for a beat, breathing shakily. ‘And the most stupid thing of all? I don’t regret it. Not a single moment of it.’

He’s hanging his head now, staring at the ground between his feet, desperately trying to keep his breathing even. The camp is quiet apart from the crackling of the fire. He can’t bring himself to look up, and his heart drops further with every passing second in which Geralt says _nothing_. Well, Jaskier thinks to himself, were you expecting him to _deny it_? Still staring fixedly at the ground, he collects himself, putting the familiar mask back on, clearing his throat as if that was the reason for his faltering voice.

‘Well, Geralt.’ He starts. It sounds hollow but that’s never stopped him before. ‘As _lovely_ as this evening has been, I really ought to retire. I’m afraid the mountain hospitality I’ve experienced these past two nights has been somewhat subpar and I could really do with-’ he’s cut off by a rumble from _right beside him_ , and he splutters a little and curses Geralt’s stealth.

‘Me neither.’ For the second time this evening, all the thoughts have evaporated from Jaskier’s head, and he finds himself staring dumbly at Geralt, mouth hanging open.

‘You neither what?’ he extends the syllable of ‘you’, an old habit to give him more time to think, but he really doesn’t know what the witcher’s referring to.

‘I don’t regret it, Jaskier.’ And _oh_ , Jaskier understands. He sits utterly still, terrified of breaking the spell as Geralt huffs a long sigh and stares into the fire. ‘I’ve always thought I had to walk the path alone. But like this. With you. It’s better.’ Geralt looks at him then, and Jaskier swears he can feel those eyes burning into his skin. ‘With a friend.’ At any other time, Jaskier would tease the witcher, ask for that in writing. With anyone else, he would probably lean in for a kiss, and while he wishes with all his heart that he could, this is so _unlike_ any other time, so _unlike_ anyone else, that Jaskier just stares back, utterly pinned in place. The moments stretch out into hours, and Jaskier realises he should probably breathe but he’s not sure he wants to. Then Geralt looks away, back into the fire, and the spell is broken. Jaskier exhales, a little shakily. There’s a bubble of joy in his chest, and he has the absurd urge to laugh. He lets it out as a whistle instead.

‘Wheeew, Geralt. Now this, _this_ , would make for an _excellent_ ballad. The humble bard, _horribly_ wronged by a _cruel_ witcher, overcomes, uh, _knaves_ , and- and _ruffians_ , and _bandits_ , to reunite with his _chastened_ and oh so _contrite_ _friend_. And it’ll be called’ raising his voice to project across the clearing, he throws up his hands in a dramatic gesture – and winces as it pulls his shoulder ‘ow. It will be _called_ The Triumphant Return of Jaskier, the Continent’s Bravest and Most Brilliant Bard.’ Geralt snorts, and Jaskier throws him an offended glare. ‘Well, I mean, that’s a working title. Could do with some finesse. And a lute. But I just _know_ it’s going to be in G major – an excellent, _rousing_ key, one of my _favourites_. And it will start…’ his voice tails off into tuneful humming, fingers twitching as if the lack of lute won’t hinder his composing in the slightest.

‘Don’t let it go to your head, bard.’ Geralt mutters, but there’s no heat in it and he’s smiling to himself. He turns from Jaskier, getting up and walking away from the fire to see to Roach and fetch his bedroll. Hmm. Only one bedroll, he notes, stroking Roach’s velvety nose. He looks back over to the familiar figure by the fire, and he smiles minutely. Maybe they can share.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed!
> 
> I feel I need to say that I adore capable!Jaskier as much as the next woman, but sometimes to really suffer he has to be just a little bit useless. I've tried to find that line so he's not just a bumbling idiot; in my mind he's a city boy at heart after all and his skills lie in navigating people, not mountains. On the plus side, I love foulmouthed!Jaskier, so thanks to Joey Batey's bake off video for the inspiration there. 
> 
> I hope you guys like. This is my first time trying to write Geralt and Jaskier, and I'm super nervous of writing them out of character. Please let me know what you think in the comments! xox


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